


Olympic Mood

by ChickadeeChick



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M, Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChickadeeChick/pseuds/ChickadeeChick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan drags Roger out to celebrate after their gold medal win at the Beijing Olympics.  Someone Roger didn't expect to see is also enjoying the party at the Dutch Hospitality House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olympic Mood

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Don't know. Don't own. Don't make any money off of. I make this all up... hence the term "fiction."
> 
> Author's Notes: So I saw this bit about the Hospitality Houses that were open to the public at the Beijing Olympic Village and I wondered if the athletes every enjoyed the endless parties going on. The Dutch House was the most amusing, and many of the details I refer to in this fic (at least in reference to the Dutch Hospitality House) are true. :)

So it wasn’t exactly the gold medal that he was looking for, but Roger wasn’t about to start complaining.  And he was still smiling stupidly as he and Mirka made their way out of their hotel room and into the lobby.  Stanislas grabbed them both almost before they made it out of the doors of the elevator, dragging the pair towards the door and the hot, humid air of the Beijing evening.    
  
Dinner, coffee, and a walk back to the hotel instead of taking a cab, and Roger was close to cracking.  
  
“Come oooooon.” Stanislas whined in French.  “We just won a gold medal!  I mean, I know it wasn’t exactly what you expected but… Dammit, I refuse to go out and celebrate without you!”  He stomped his foot and crossed his arms, increasing the boyish maturity of the whole conversation.  
  
Roger looked to Mirka for support, but she just shrugged, an overly amused smile plastered to her face.  Roger knew that she was done for the night, and Roger was of a mind to follow her upstairs, but it was hard to refuse his good friend.    
  
In the end, Roger caved.  “Fine.  Fine, Stan.  You got…” Roger glanced at his watch.  “…three hours.”  He leaned over and kissed Mirka.  “I’ll be back sooner if I can escape him.”  
  
“Not a change, Rog.”  Stan actually grabbed Roger’s wrist and tugged him a step away from Mirka while waving to her, a wide smile plastered on his face.  “For the next three hours you are mine.”  
  
“Just return him in one piece!”  Mirka waved back and made her way into the hotel.  
  
Roger almost sagged as she left, but didn’t have that range of movement in his shoulders as his friend dragged him bodily down the street.  
  
“Where are we going?” Roger got out once Stan released him from a vice-like grip and he caught up.  
  
“First?” Roger gulped that there was a ‘first.’  Stan didn’t notice his friend’s reaction. “I’ve heard great things about the Dutch Hospitality House.”  
  
In truth, they might as well have called it Club Holland.  With Heineken being the sponsor and the house open to the public, the place an almost constant party, even sans any medals for the Dutch in the past few days.  The building was huge with a large open area containing a sea of people wearing orange clothes and orange wigs and orange plastic leis holding orange cups and writhing to the blaring techno.  Roger was sure the music would have been orange if they could have managed it.  
  
While Stan grabbed two beers Roger grabbed a pair of enormous orange sunglasses from a passing girl in an orange bikini carrying a huge basket of Dutch team spirit paraphernalia.    
  
“You haven’t switched sides now, have you?” Stan joked, handing Roger a beer.  Roger frowned at it but took a sip.  He had already had enough wine with dinner and wasn’t looking to get drunk – apparently unlike Stan.    
  
The only response the younger man got was a single eyebrow elevating above an orange rim.  Roger leaned forward so that he wouldn’t have to yell.  “You think I want to get recognized right now?”  
  
Stan nodded.  He knew it was true.  Roger seemed to attract attention everywhere he went and at this point in his career had an all-too-recognizable face.  Stan smiled and started dancing towards the dance floor, holding his already half-empty cup of beer high.    
  
When Stan beckoned, Roger rolled his eyes and shook his head, pointing over to another room with a large neon sign above it that said “Game Lounge.”  Stan shrugged and kept dancing away and Roger let out a breath of relief.  If he was going to stay here long enough to get Stan drunk enough that he could escape, he at least could do it somewhere that wasn’t a dance party.  
  
Roger made his way through the throngs of people to said lounge and was surprised to see another rather large room filled with another, albeit smaller, animated crowd.  Making his way to see exactly what was going on, he maneuvered around a set of ping-pong tables, one of which had been commandeered for a large game of beer pong.  As he approached the far corner the crowd erupted into cheers and howls and Roger had to peer over flailing arms to get an idea of what was going on.  It seemed to something on a large flat screen television.  
  
As the crowd quieted down Roger quickly got a full view of a tennis match.  Wii tennis, to be exact.  It took a few minutes, but he needled his way to the front to get a better view.    
  
Standing side-by-side, two men were using the small Wii controllers to hit a ball through a rather long volley.  After watching the screen for a few moments, Roger looked to the players and nearly choked on his drink.  Okay, so he was wearing an oversized orange t-shirt and black shorts, his hair was pulled into a tight ponytail high on the back of his head, and he sported another pair of the ridiculous orange sunglasses, but one of the players was quite obviously Rafael Nadal.    
  
Well, obvious to Roger, at least.  How could he not know that stance, that swing, after having faced it across the net so many times?  And, more importantly, how had no one else noticed?  
  
Then again, most of this group was probably already rather intoxicated, and it was dim in the lounge, so perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched.    
  
And it wasn’t exactly as if Rafa was playing like the soon-to-be world number one.  Roger could tell he was pulling his punches, so to speak, even if it was just Wii tennis and not the real thing.  It was only a few more strokes and Rafa lost the volley on an unforced error, and apparently the match.    
  
Sagging in overdramatized defeat, Rafa shook the hand of his opponent, smiled, and handed off the Wii-mote to the next player, a girl who blushed brightly and giggled in the face of Rafa’s smile.  
  
It was a few minutes before Roger could make his way over to Rafa, who was still standing in the main ring of people to watch the next match.  The Spaniard chatted casually with someone to his left and laughed.  Roger waited until the exchange was over and then nudged Rafa’s shoulder with his own.  “Nice match there.”  He said in English, looking to Rafa while he smiled and finished off his beer.  
  
“Thank you.”  Rafa turned to his right and sounded like he was going to continue the sentence but paused, peered at Roger for a moment, and then broke out into hysterical laughter.  The stupid smile that had been plastered on Roger’s face earlier in the day returned and he had to try hard to stop himself from breaking into his own fit of laughter.  The situation was just too… bizarre.  
  
Panting a bit as he recovered, Rafa adjusted his own sunglasses.  “Orange hair was too… ah… itchy.”  At this Roger did laugh and followed when Rafa motioned for him to come with as he moved out of the crowd.    
  
Once away from the people Rafa gripped Roger’s shoulder tightly and smiled even wider than he had before.  “I saw your match!  Congratulations!  It was great!”    
  
He suddenly understood why that girl had blushed and giggled.  Maybe it was his very slight buzz talking, but Roger noticed that Rafa really did have a staggeringly great smile.  He couldn’t help but smile back.  “Thank you.  It was a good match.  You’ll be in the same place tomorrow, I expect.  Why aren’t you at home sleeping?”  
  
Looking suddenly alarmed, Rafa looked at his watch, having to hit the little backlight to read it properly.  He let out a sigh of relief.  “Only 21:00.  I have half hour before bed time… mama.”    
  
Roger laughed and put his hands up in mock defense.  “Okay, okay.  But good luck tomorrow.  I know you will do well.”  And he did mean it because he really wanted Rafa to do well.  Rafa was a worthy opponent and Roger was more mad at himself than anyone else about his recent downfall in the world of professional tennis.  
  
“I think I have already done well.” Rafa leaned against the nearby wall.  “Now I win.”  
  
The Spaniard oozed a confidence that was rather unlike him.  Roger raised his eyebrows above the rim of the sunglasses.  “Just win?  What happened to ‘I will play my best and we will see’?”  He couldn’t help tease the other player for this change in outlook.  
  
Rafa shrugged.  “It is the Olympics.  Why not?”  
  
Roger didn’t really have an answer to that so he just smiled and nodded.  The crowd around the television erupted into cheers again and he looked away from Rafa for a moment.  
  
His attention snapped back when Roger felt the soft press of lips to his cheekbone.  He whirled his head around so fast he knocked noses with the slightly taller Rafa.    
  
Rafa was undeterred and leaned in to press a light kiss to Roger’s lips; perhaps that was what he was aiming for before Roger turned his head.  He moved his fingers to graze the older man’s jaw.    
  
The touch rocketed straight to Roger’s groin and he actually gasped.  Rafa smiled, a bit more predatory now.  He kissed Roger again, lingering this time, waiting for a response.  
  
Head suddenly fuzzy, Roger realized that it felt good.  Really good, if he was honest with himself.  Ever since the last French Open, maybe even before that, there had been a tension building between the two.  After Wimbledon it had gotten to the point that he had actually, for the first time in so many years, broken a racket – snapped the thing in half like it was made of balsa wood… in the privacy of his own part of the locker room.  It had only gotten worse from there and it needed a release valve… and soon.  Roger was actually worried that he might punch Rafa in the face or something equally as horrible.  But this… this worked.    
  
Roger kissed Rafa back.  
  
And hey, it is the Olympics.    
  
Why not?


End file.
